The Right Man in the Wrong Place
by BoredZero
Summary: Take three, with a different set of omnipotent people. I haven't really decided yet. If you haven't read these before, it's quite simple - a man from the early 21st Century ends up in the 22nd Century and he's not playing by 22nd Century rules. Rated M.
1. Genesis

_I sighed to myself as I rubbed my face into my hands, disappointed with yet again how the last one turned out. It had no coherency, jumped from place to place, and was just one big lump of amateurish scribble being typed out in between Bawls-filled gaming marathons._

 _And work._

 _By the way, those of you who sent PMs asking about the stories, thank you for your support, and apologies for deleting them._

 _Here we go again._

 _One more thing - stop putting questions into your goddamn summaries. Why the hell are you asking people about what's going to happen in a story they haven't read yet?_

* * *

The first and only thing I remember after having woken up was not my name, or where I lived, or whether or not that ceiling I was staring at was unfamiliar at all.

Rather, the first and only thing I remember was thus:

Pain. Unending pain.

First it felt like every single orifice possible was shoved full of something to the point of breaking, my every breath only at the whim of the asshole behind the curtain.

The next was the absolute helplessness due to none of my limbs being strong enough at all to move a single inch. They taunted me with that, having dumped me onto the ground unceremoniously, fluids and all, and told me if I could crawl out of the room, they'd let me go.

Back then, the only thing I could do was cry at my own inability and overwhelming weakness as they picked me back up and tossed me back into the bed with the only method of protest being my weakened, dry voice.

The kind of weakness no person should ever have forced upon them.

From then on, it was only the occasional flash of coherency – the briefest beep of heart monitors, a snippet of a verbal report on my status, and, most of all, I remember being rescued.

I remembered screaming.

I remembered gunshots.

I remembered a woman. Long hair. Hint of vanilla hidden beneath scentless clothing.

I remembered things being thrown at other people in anger.

But most of all…

I remembered who they really were.

* * *

The second thing I remembered was waking up in a comfy bed, hooked up to familiar looking monitors, with numbers written on it, and the beeping that comes with the heart monitor.

I had no idea where I was, only that I wasn't where I was before – violated and helpless, because there were no restraints on this bed.

A slow look around the room revealed a view of open space, a bulkhead that doubled as a door, a radio, a computer terminal, a screen of some kind, and a woman with long, auburn hair, curled up in a couch with a blanket around a fireplace.

The third thing was that I felt immediately nauseous and instinctively went to sit up. I couldn't, so in lieu of that, I did the next best thing and rolled onto my side and hoped to aim over the side of the bed.

I didn't.

So here I am, still weak as all hell, with vomitus all over the bed and the floor with a non-functioning body.

The immediately weakened, pained portion of my mind immediately screamed help.

The more analytical, overly paranoid portion on the other hand, screamed setup. The fact that there was nothing to indicate time, date, or anything of that sort reinforced that particular thought.

Not that it changed the fact that I was still, at the moment, absolutely powerless to do anything but make a mess out of myself.

"Oh, you're awake. Hang on a minute – I'll go get someone to clean that up for you." The woman spoke with a soothing accent – English, if I'm not mistaken.

The door hissed open and shut, and I was suddenly being gently lifted up into a sitting position as I felt something wet wipe itself across my lips, cleaning away the last of the vomit.

"There we are." She smiled, putting the cloth down with a sigh. "Isn't that better?"

In lieu of opening my mouth, I simply nodded.

"I see you're hesitant to speak at the moment. That's perfectly understandable. You've been through quite the ordeal. Luck seems to be on your side. Well, in any case, you've slept enough." She decided, gesturing towards the door. "Let's get you out of the room, shall we?"

Being a mute at the moment, I did my best to nod without my head completely falling over.

It didn't work.

* * *

She had a brief argument with the orderly (or so I assume that's what he was) about doctor's orders, and politely reminded him that not only was she her superior, she was also a fully qualified doctor.

The orderly gave up, and we started our trip throughout the place.

As grateful as I was to be free of whatever nightmare I was trapped in before, the paranoid side of me couldn't help but keep screaming "trap".

To be fair, I had spent a fair amount of time angrily ranting to my closest friend about the idiocy of some of the predicaments that come across in modern entertainment.

Huh. I remembered something.

So here I am – weak as all hell, being wheeled through an unfamiliar compound that was far too clinical to be anything else other than trouble, despite the large number of people that were milling around talking about medical needs of "the last group they pulled out of that hellhole".

I'm putting those in air quotes because in the six minutes I've been here as the beautiful woman behind me wheels me around, I've heard the phrase uttered no less than two dozen times. Bit odd, given the lengths they've gone through so far.

And of course, there was the spiel about saving all of us from some alien slaver's base as we (a small group of those of us supposedly liberated from said base) watched behind a pane of glass as a bunch of aliens were spaced screaming and begging for their lives, clawing desperately at the smooth, metal surface for any kind of purchase.

Still being the weak little human I was, I stayed quiet.

The others latched on to her every word, however – cheering for the small bit of comfort they felt never questioning whether or not the people who now flailed about as the vacuum boiled their blood whilst they suffocated.

Idiots.

Well, then. Whenever I get back in a position to take down these bastards, they'll have to answer for the deaths of eight people, at least.

I'll bide my time.

I needed to get out of there.

I started wheezing a little, choking on my own spit as a little bit dribbled out. The woman behind me spoke some more in her soothing tone and wheeled me out of there, back towards the room we first left.

She sat down on the bed as I was tucked back in, weak as I was (don't think I didn't realize they were using the blankets as a makeshift restraint, which, in my state, would've been next to impossible to get out of), and mentioned that they'd be using some experimental treatments to get me back up and running.

And all I had to do was "be myself" and "let them" shoulder my burdens.

What a crock of shit.

Unable to do anything else, I forced a convincing smile and drifted off to sleep as the sedatives they had in the IV took hold.

* * *

Dreams are interesting things.

We like to think that dreams are the stuff of hope, visions of the good things to be in another time, in another world.

We recognize the fact that sometimes, our dreams don't always go the way we want to. The so-called, "bad" dream, as it were.

Or, to put it another way, nightmares.

I don't know how much of the last three months were dreams or nightmares – or if I was ever asleep at all.

It was all just one, confusing, mishmash of voices and blurry sights. My brain instinctively did its best to retain anything useful, knowing that we were deep inside hostile territory with little success.

I remembered the blurs. I remembered the trombone like conversations.

And when I woke up, I couldn't remember anything.

"You're awake."

It was her again, with her soothing voice and gentle touch. What are they trying to do? And what the hell do they want with me?

I opened my mouth, but a single finger over my lips stopped me from saying anything.

"Shhhh." She whispered. "Don't speak. Your body is still recovering from the treatments we had to put you through to restore your muscle mass and fix the nerve damage, but something went wrong."

She removed the finger, a worrying expression on her face as she sat down on the side of the bed, leaning in ever so gently with her arms propping herself up.

"Still, it wasn't entirely bad." She said, holding up a mirror. "Recognize yourself?"

I did, vaguely. My face was still shaven, my hair was roughly in the same style I kept it in. It didn't look that different, actually.

I simply nodded, not trusting my voice.

"You might have to spend some time relearning how to do the simple things – we're not entirely certain how you ended up this way…but I suppose the bright side is it's going to be very hard for you to be taken in again like you did the first time." She smiled as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the rest of it cascade down around her shoulder.

What is this, a fucking shampoo commercial?

She stood up, straightening her blouse (or using it as an excuse to show off her shapely body in that relatively tight outfit), clearing her throat.

"Alright then. Whenever you're ready, slowly, sit up and stand up. If you fall, I'll catch you, okay?"

I schooled myself for a moment, bracing for any kind of pain that might pop up as I lifted the covers off to the side and looked down at my legs.

I couldn't see them very well as I was wearing long, thin pants, so I wiggled my toes to make sure they still worked.

And then I put them onto the surprisingly warm floor and stood up slowly, waiting for any kind of vertigo or nausea to kick in.

It never did.

So I looked down at my bare chest, expecting to see my old, rotund self.

It was not.

"Surprised? I was as well. Despite having pioneered the techniques and treatments we used to bring you back to full health, your uniqueness someone took what I came up with an took it several steps further. No doubt you've realized that your strength will have probably increased dramatically, as well as your stamina. Testing will reveal exactly how far it's gone. We can start with this." She suggested, placing a round ball into my hand. "Squeeze it."

Doing the only thing I could think of at the time, I decided to slowly increase the amount of pressure I was squeezing with. It buckled right around what felt like my old soda can grip.

"Well, look at you – a regular Captain America."

"I'm not military." I replied immediately, my voice sounding slightly raspy from underuse.

But she didn't care. Her smile brightened up a notch – something I didn't think possible – and she placed a hand on her hip.

"It's nice to finally hear your voice."

"It's nice not to have a big fucking tube shoved up my ass for waste extraction." I grunted. "Got any clothes around here? I'd rather not walk around the place in just a pair of pants."

"Over there. We had to have some specially made due to your new size, so we borrowed some of the designs we found you with."

I walked over to the dresser, pulling it open and putting on the clothes.

I didn't give a crap what color they were, so long as they were comfortable and didn't stand out like a sore thumb. Then again, around this place, white seemed to be the color of choice.

"What now?"

"Now, we run some tests to make sure you can use your newfound gifts, and then that's it."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"And who exactly is this…"we", you keep talking about?"

She tilted her head to the side and gave a whimsical sigh. "We work for the human government."

I blinked. "Human?" I repeated, feigning ignorance.

"Yes. It's the year 2176. You've been asleep for more than a hundred and fifty years."

Little earlier than I expected.

Does explain a few things though.

Like why Miranda Lawson looks a little younger and why she doesn't have a permanent scowl on her face.

Oh. Hm.

"I see."

"Your personnel records were found in the facility we found you in, and have been used to create a new identity for you, along with a small stipend to get you started. You're free to go wherever you wish."

"Great." I snarked. "Not like I have a place to stay at."

"That's been taken care of." She answered, handing me a small card. "That's the address of the lodgings the Alliance has set up for the survivors. Your belongings…what little we could salvage have been moved to an apartment at that building. And this…is my information." She said ,plucking the card out from my hand, writing something on the back. "You can expect to see me within the next three days. I'll be checking up on you to make sure everything's working perfectly fine."

"I see. You know, it occurs to me, that throughout this entire ordeal, we've never swapped our names, have we?"

She giggled a little. "Well, in my case, it wasn't hard for me to look up yours, Mr. Pierce. You can call me Miranda."

"That a first or last name?"

She turned around with a teasing smile. "That's the only name you'll be getting from me, Mr. Pierce. A deal might be struck for the other part of my name, but…well, you'll have to work for it." She said, sashaying out of the room.

Honey pot, meet not playing the game.

"Just follow the yellow line."

So I did.

* * *

It was when I reached the front of the building when the fact that this was not where I was treated became abundantly clear.

For one thing, there was no shortage of clocks, updated news terminals, or communications devices.

For another thing, the conversations people were having were, largely, about the most pointless things.

Even a hundred and fifty years later, we still haven't become intelligent enough to move past friggin' celebrity gossip and sex scandals.

Of course, right next to the celebrity scandal magazines were gun magazines, so it couldn't have been all bad. A quick glance at them indicated a range of articles talking about everything from modern heat sink design to the use of the word "clip" instead of magazine" to one opinion article that was absolutely against "modern" modern arms and wanted a return to the good ole days when rifles and pistols didn't have computers built in to control precisely generated waves from something that broke the laws of physics.

On my way out, I was pulled aside by a gunnery chief who gave me a basic omni-tool and a tutorial on how to use it before she pointed me in the direction of a car that was waiting to take me to my new, if a bit temporary apartment.

Welcome to the 22nd Century indeed.

As the door hissed shut behind me, I went through the footlocker they plopped down at the foot of the bed, wondering if any of it held any indication as to my original identity.

There was no dust on the surface, so it hadn't been waiting long – although there was a physical seal over the opening that was signed, sealed and dated.

I opened it.

Inside were some familiar clothes, an old phone and a wallet – except the phone was dead and the wallet had been absolutely ruined. Burned, it looked like.

And then, at the bottom of the footlocker, I couldn't help but notice that it was a false bottom, with a little depression hidden near the wall. I placed my finger on it, trying to figure out how it worked when I heard a click, and the bottom popped up slightly, allowing me to push down on the opposite end to push it up.

And beneath the false bottom, I found a foam insert with a familiar knife, a Sig Sauer P320, a barrel compensator, a suppressor, three magazines, spare ammunition and next to it, a small stash of ten little golden coins.

I reached down with my right hand, lifting the P320 out of the foam insert, gripping it in my right hand almost instinctively.

I hit the magazine release and caught the magazine – loaded, of course, and locked the slide back, ejecting a single, spent round from the chamber. The firing pin indentation was clear, as was the smell of burnt gunpowder.

I can only guess that whoever gave me this did so to prove that the weapon was still functioning.

Putting it aside, I picked up one of the small, gold coins and weighed it in my hand.

It felt absolutely cool to the touch and extremely familiar, but I couldn't really place the reason why.

The gun on the other hand, was like wearing a glove.

I don't know what to make of that.


	2. Evil Eye

Disclaimer:Blah blah blah blah. This is FF Net. If you don't know what's here already, you need to RTFM.

A/N: Thanks to all who read. Hopefully, this one doesn't suck.

* * *

The colony of Elysium – Earth's greatest achievement, I'm told. Here we are, light years away from our home planet and we still have a thriving city with a booming economy and nothing but paradise as far as the eye can see.

And once again, I'm having one of those moments where things seem very familiar to me and I have no idea why.

"Penny for your thoughts, Colonel?"

I'm also apparently a Colonel of some sort. They apparently found remnants of my wallet and found my identification badge all but destroyed, save for my rank. It was apparently made of bronze, and was fairly heavy for an ID card.

I took another sip of what passes for coffee around here. Not nearly as big of a caffeine punch as I'm used to, but it does the job.

"Doctor Miranda." I greeted with a nod, gesturing to the open seat across from me. "What brings you by?"

She tilted her head slightly to the side. "Didn't I tell you I'd be around to check up on you?"

"Oh."

She continued standing, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Aren't you going to offer me a seat?"

I grunted wordlessly, gesturing to the empty seat across from me, bringing my third cup of coffee up to mouth.

"Thanks." She replied, sarcastically, gesturing to one of the wait staff. Unsurprisingly, he rushed over as quick as he could.

"Have you read the information the Alliance gave you?"

I did. It seemed…off – chief of which was the bit about being a Colonel, but since the pistol felt so familiar, it didn't seem that far out of the realm of possibility.

"What about it?"

She crossed one leg over the other, causing her skirt to hike up just a tiny bit, before leaning forward a little.

"Humanity is in need of good officers. Have you given any thought to joining?"

"Briefly." I muttered. "I assume I have them to thank for this?" I asked, showing her the pistol.

She shook her head. "I don't know where you got that from, but the Alliance hasn't used weapons like that in decades. Most weapons like that are usually only seen in museums – where did you get that, by the way?"

"It was in the footlocker." I shrugged, placing it back into its holster. "I need to thank whoever it was."

"And why is that?"

"It's familiar." I said, staring straight into her eyes. "Like riding a bike."

The corners of her smile turned upwards ever so slightly as she picked up her cup with both hands. "Oh?"

I didn't take the bait, draining the rest of my coffee as I scanned the room again.

"In any case, you seem to be dealing with the situation better than your colleagues."

"They're not my colleagues. The only thing we have in common is that some jackass put us in cryo against our will." I grunted. "Tell me more about that, by the way. The packet I got was unsurprisingly light in details."

She sighed in frustration, leaning back against the chair. "That's because we _are_ unsurprisingly light in details. We don't know why there were a hundred of you, or why they put you there, or why they kept your belongings. It was sheer luck that the ship we found you in was happened upon by one of our patrols." She explained, doing the hair thing again.

"Sounds like whatever jackass thought this up was a Star Trek fan." I muttered beneath my breath.

"Say that again." She demanded immediately, leaning forward.

"Sounds like whatever jackass thought this up was a Star Trek fan?" I repeated, confused as to why she suddenly found that line so interesting.

Oh. _Oh_.

"Goddamn it." I swore.

"Looks like I wasn't too far off the mark there, _Captain_." She teased, laughing for some reason.

I scowled. "It's _Colonel_."

"Fine then, _Colonel_. At least we're making progress." She grinned, placing her hand over mine.

Ugh. Honey pot. I get it. Do you really have to be obvious?

"I don't suppose you'd know a place around here where I can get ammunition made for my weapon and train."

She pursed her lips cutely (I'm going to puke) and hmm'ed for a moment, before nodding and draining the rest of her cup. "I do. Come on – I'll introduce you."

* * *

Although he was officially on loan from the Alliance, First Lieutenant Razscak was known only to the Elysium Colonial Defense Force as "Sergeant Major". This was due largely in part to the Alliance not wanting to let the ECDF run roughshod over their instructor, and the ECD not wanting another Alliance officer to dictate terms.

After the First Contact War, trust in the Alliance wasn't very high out in the colonies.

Tactics out here were different. Humanity was still learning the lessons of the First Contact War – chief among which was that the other alien bastards out there were using the same technology we were, except better because they've had it longer.

That wasn't the problem.

The problem was that the weapons that _did_ work – the good old fashioned slug throwers – required a constant source of ammunition, which, upon running out of, would render their weapons little more than long sticks of metal with a sharp edge at the end of it.

The analysts railed against it. Infantryman decried it as one of the worst moves of the Alliance.

But the Committee for Military Appropriations declared it one of the best moves in human history, making combat safer for all involved and drastically reducing the maintenance costs of repair and sheer material needed to make all those bullets.

Razscak understood these conflicting arguments very well, being one of the few that survived Shanxi.

But, ultimately, at the end of the day, a weapon you could fire near indefinitely was preferable to a weapon with a finite ammunition counter – and it simplified logistics dramatically, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

Sometimes, he mused, the old ways are best.

There were rumors that part of the reason the Alliance switched was due to political pressure by the Council in order to leave the age of barbarism behind.

"Hello, Lieutenant." A familiar voice wafted through the doorway. He looked up from his desk, a big grin on his scarred face. "Miri! How's my favorite egghead?" He greeted, standing up with open arms.

"I'm doing well." She replied warmly, returning the hug with a smile. "I'm actually with a patient today, Jean. Lieutenant Raszcak, Mr. Jackson Pierce, former Colonel."

"Sir." Raszcak nodded, extending a hand. The man shook it firmly, returning the greeting with a nod and a curt, "Lieutenant."

"The Colonel here was just asking me if I knew anywhere he could train and maybe get some bullets made, so naturally, I thought of you."

Raszcak grunted as he sat back down. "The training bit is easy – as long as you have permission from the base commander to use the training facilities and pass a few safety tests, you can use the range as long as it isn't booked for a training session. The other part though, a little more difficult due to the _great_ switchover." He finished sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he put a cigar in his mouth, lighting it with a lighter. "There's a few around Elysium, but most of them are by demand and their services don't come cheap. If you're looking for a job though, the Alliance is always looking for good officers."

The man shook his head. "I'd rather not get into another commitment so soon. I need some time to get my bearings."

Raszcak eyed the stranger for a few moments before reaching into his desk and placing a wanted poster on the table.

"Alright, then. If joining isn't your speed, maybe bounty hunting will be. This lowlife scumbag's name is Blind Jim – goes around gutting people's eyeballs out with a melon baller before killing them. The ECPD and ECDF want this guy either brought in dead or alive and are willing to pay sixty thousand credits for just him. If you can do the same for the rest of his crew, bounty goes up to a hundred and fifty thousand, plus whatever you find you can keep provided it doesn't have to go into evidence. I can fly you out there in a shuttle if you want."

"You're not seriously considering this, are you?" Miranda asked, frowning at the man.

The stranger shrugged. "He's asking for it." He said, turning back to Raszcak. "Got any other intel on the guy's place, or am I going in blind?"

"I picked an easy one for you this time. Man's an absolute idiot. The only thing stopping us from taking his ass out is that his crew's got access to heavy hardware. We're still trying to figure out where he got them from."

"Send the intel up to my room. I'll take a look at it. BYOG?"

Raszcak smirked. "I'm sure someone like you'll be able to make due."

"I'll be back at my place if you need me." The man said to Miranda before walking out.

"Are you out of your mind?" Miranda demanded loudly, grabbing the heavily scarred veteran across the desk. "Why the hell are you sending him after Blind Jim?"

"Curiosity. That, and that's the only job left. All the easier ones were snatched up by locals. Besides, you should have a little more faith. If the man is a Colonel, he'll be fine." He said, unconcerned, puffing away at his cigar.

* * *

I returned to the room.

This time, there was a suit bag laying on my bed, along with a note suggesting that I drop by the listed address when time afforded the opportunity, and that I'd find the suit to be useful.

I scanned the suit to make sure there were no surprises, and then I checked it over visually to make doubly sure before putting it on.

Oddly enough, it was bespoke – meaning that whoever it was had gotten close enough to get my measurements, or had someone with access to my medical files.

Still, having never had a suit that was tailor made for me, it felt like a dream.

I didn't wear the tie, though – and I left the top button undone because ties are just asking to get choked in the middle of a fight.

The holster fit nicely, as did the gun and the gift they gave me earlier.

At least, I'm assuming it was the same people who gave me this. I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I couldn't help but be paranoid about things like this showing up.

Shaking my head, I opened the file that the Lieutenant (Come on you apes, you wanna live forever!?) gave me on my omni-tool and looked it over.

How delightfully simple.

Blind Jim was holed up in one of the larger apartment buildings, having kicked the previous tenants out. No doubt, he had done some interior remodeling to make attacking it from the ground to be dangerous.

The problem was that there were three possible buildings and they didn't know which one was where Blind Jim was at.

And then I had an idea and flipped to the page of known businesses and rackets the dirtbag had.

As I read through the files, my mind couldn't help but drift back to those ten little gold coins. I put the files down and reached into the locker, unlocking the panel at the bottom and pulled out the coins.

I grabbed all ten and put them in my pocket, locked it all down, grabbed the note and rushed out the door.

I hopped out of the taxi and looked up at the building the address had listed down, and found it in the high end of the tourist district, near the spaceport.

A quick glance up at the placard confirmed what I had already suspected.

The Continental.

That explains the suit, the guns and the coins…but the real question is why.

I suppose I'll have to find out.

* * *

I walked up to the desk, where a beautiful young woman greeted me with a dazzling smile and-holyshit, that's a hot redhead!

"Welcome to the Continental. May I have your name please?"

"I was given this." I answered, placing the note down on the table, along with a single gold coin, if I remembered how this worked.

"Ah, Mr. Pierce. I see you are not entirely unfamiliar with the way how this works." She smiled, taking the notice and pushing the coin back towards me. "However, payment on this will not be necessary. Come with me – John will want to see you."

So I followed her out from the front desk in the foyer to a lavishly well decorated restaurant and was led to a table in the corner in a secluded alcove.

"John. This is Mr. Pierce."

"Thank you, Kelly." John's quiet, smooth baritone replied. "Please, sit. There's a lot to explain."

Wordlessly, I pulled back the chair and sat down, unsure of where this was going.

Before I could say anything, a waiter arrived and placed a plate in front of me with one of the best steaks I could ever _imagine_ , with a side of potatoes and a pot of tea.

"Please, with my compliments." John requested, gesturing to the plate with his drink before taking a sip. "It's not every day you get to live to see a hundred and fifty years into the future. You're perfectly safe here."

"Because no business may be conducted on Continental grounds, correct?" I asked politely.

John nodded. "Well…with exception – one _damn_ good exception. But for now, eat. I'm curious to see what the history books got right. I hope you don't mind if I pick your brain while we eat."

"Not at all." I replied, feeling slightly more at ease.

* * *

So.

The Continental. That's what those gold coins were.

Recruitment.

They're too useful to _not_ use – and my gut was telling me to stay away from working in the Alliance, so maybe I'll go do this freelancing shit for a while.

I had to use seven of my ten to get the gear I wanted for what I was about to do, but it was worth it.

For a vintage M4 with a shortened barrel chambered in 6.5mm with thirty round magazines, a hybrid holographic sight, and a trade in of my P320 for a Glock 19 in .45 ACP and an additional 1911 Commander for a backup, plus ammo, grenades, and a couple of other gadgets, I'd say it was well worth it – plus one _other_ item.

Especially since that Blind Jim had a larger contract that the ECDF and EPD weren't aware of, since it involved human trafficking. Someone else had opened a contract on the guy, which was just my luck.

The job also came with more intel, which identified the building in question, complete with hostile counts and a complete floor plan.

Not that it mattered.

I did have to spend the last of my coins setting up my exfiltration, so it was a little all or nothing, but hell, what's the point of not taking risks?

I climbed into the crate marked for delivery to the building and waited patiently, dozing off.

It was going to be a long trip.

* * *

Four goons grumbled as one of them reshuffled the cards as they sat in the laundry room at the bottom of the apartment complex.

They had been assigned to watch over the supplies for the weekend, which was when their boss had his "fun time" torturing the idiots dumb enough to fall for his ads about a job that paid upwards of two thousand credits a week, with benefits.

"Why the fuck do we have to sit here with these goddamn supplies? Nobody's stupid enough to try and take us on."

"Do you want to lose your eyeballs? Because that's how you lose your eyeballs." Another grumbled. "You remember what happened to Yorrick."

"What happened to Yorrick?"

"He asked the boss the same stupid fucking question you did. Next thing he knows, he's screaming for his fuckin' mama as his eyeballs are getting scooped out with a goddamn melon baller. And if you ask the same question, I'm not gonna be the one who has to clean up the shit you're gonna leave all over the fucking place when he scoops out your eyeba-* **BANG***!"

They jumped to their feet, hands going for their guns.

It was odd, Pierce thought to himself, how it was like watching them move in slow motion as he fired one round per head, barely slowing down in the tiny room as he turned left down the way and barreled into the front door, knocking over the two guards that normally watch the front door.

Making sure they wouldn't be a problem anymore, he shot one and stomped on the other's head, reducing it to mush with a sickening crunch as brain and blood splattered everywhere.

He continued his way up the stairs, popping the next two in the head as well.

"Don't know what the hell's so tough about these dumbasses." He muttered as he made his way through the barricade.

The 6.5mm round, while heavier than usual due to the shortened barrel, still made short work of everything that came his way.

"This is almost like shooting ducks in a goddamn barrel." He swore, reloading in the middle of a lull. "Shit, I shoulda just used the Glock."

Two minutes later…

"What the holy fuck!? You dare!?" Blind Jim screamed, firing his weapon at the now ruined doors, hoping to scare Pierce into taking cover.

It would've worked, but Pierce wasn't at the door anymore, having cut through one of the side rooms.

Never realizing that he had been flanked, Blind Jim never even saw the .45 ACP plus P 230 grain rounds bring down his "military grade" kinetic barrier generator and punch through his skull.

 **"Bring it in."**


End file.
